


nothing but the candle in the mirror

by reynabeth



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types
Genre: Child Abuse (mild to moderate), Gen, Implied Ruegard, Mildly Dubious Consent, Natasha Pierre & The Great Comet of 1812 AU, Non-binary Leo, One-sided Percabeth, Pipabeth - Freeform, Suicide Attempt, Very OOC, percabeth, reynabeth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 17:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7626679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reynabeth/pseuds/reynabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“And here is what is reflected in the windowpanes: stuttering candlelight, smudged black ink, and a haunted, ghostly face.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	nothing but the candle in the mirror

**Author's Note:**

> wOw okay so this is an au of a musical called natasha pierre and the great comet of 1812, which you should listen to. basically each pjo character is a tgc character & it's so ooc you won't even beliEVE  
> it's the longest thing ive ever written & in only 3 weeks !! + it's a celebration of me getting 2k on instagram also the italics wouldn't work so that's a bit confusing but idk how to fix it sorry bye  
> anyway please enjoy it in all its ooc un-beta'd glory thanks :)
> 
>  
> 
> [anything u recognise is from rick riordan/dave malloy/tolstoy. rest is mine.]

The candle wax is dripping. The candle wax is dripping, soft and hot and yellow, melting and warping out of shape. 

In the dim light, Percy doesn't even notice the candle until a drop of liquid wax falls onto the page of his book, landing right by his thumb. He hisses, whips his hand back involuntarily, and nearly knocks over the glass of finest French red wine that perches precariously on the edge of his desk.

Grasping the stem of the glass, he rights it, and attempts to wipe the solidifying wax from the paper - and then starts, gaze flicking upwards, as a clap of thunder shakes the windows, rattling them in their frames. 

He pushes back his chair, goes to close the shutters and block out the noise, but pauses by the glass, looking outwards.

Percy is alone. 

He is alone, and the candle wax is dripping.

\-------

Snow falls, thick and heavy. It dusts over Annabeth's cloak and hair; she brushes it away absentmindedly, the cold flakes nipping at her fingers.

The sleigh draws up outside Annabeth's godfather Chiron's home. Chiron is waiting outside despite the cold, his dignified black suit sprinkled with melting drops of snow, frosting his dark hair and beard, streaking it with white.

Beside Annabeth, her cousin Hazel's sleigh halts. Hazel stands, smoothing down her wild dark curls, peppered with snowflakes, and adjusts her thick grey travelling cloak.

Annabeth stands too. "Chiron," she says, ducking her head and curtsying respectfully.

"Annabeth Chase," Chiron replies, bowing. "How nice it is to see you again - and you, too, Hazel."

"I hope you are well," Hazel smiles.

"Indeed. And you?" 

"Very much so." Hazel shivers, and Chiron beckons them forwards and into the house.

"Welcome to Moscow!" Chiron declares. "How are you enjoying it so far?"

"Oh, it is lovely," Annabeth says politely, peering around at the house: fine rugs decorate the floor and paintings hang from the walls. Annabeth marvels at the grandeur and splendour and decadence of the place.

Chiron stops, turns, embraces Annabeth warmly. "Oh, how you have grown, my dear. I am pleased to see you again." 

"And we are so pleased to be with you," Annabeth says, her voice muffled by Chiron's arms. He lets go, smiles at them, and then turns to mutter a few words to a servant, who nods and hurries away.

"Let me get you some tea," Chiron says, and leaves the room.

"Are you alright?" Hazel asks gently, turning to Annabeth.

"Cousin, dear, I love you." Annabeth takes Hazel's hand. "And I must confide in you that I cannot bear this waiting! Reyna has still not returned, and I don't know where she is!"

"There, there," Hazel says comfortingly. "I'm sure she'll be back soon, and then you can truly marry her, and be together forever."

"Yes, one day," Annabeth sighs sadly. "I want nothing more."

Chiron bustles back into the room with two steaming cups of tea. The hot liquid warms Annabeth's throat and lips, and cheers her up a little - enough to concentrate as Chiron reels off the itinerary for the next day.

"I shall go and prepare, and leave you two to chat," Hazel says, smiling, and leaves the room.

"Well, now we'll talk." Chiron takes a seat on an ornamental couch, and encourages Annabeth to do the same. It's uncomfortable, and she shifts awkwardly. "I congratulate you on your betrothal to Reyna," Chiron begins. "It's a good match, and she will be the family's saving grace."

"Thank you." Annabeth blushes happily.

"But her father, Prince Mars, doesn't feel quite the same way. He's a crotchety old man, and you must visit him to gain his approval."

"Um. Alright." Annabeth bites her lip nervously.

"Just be kind to the sister," Chiron advises, "and the father will love you.

"And all will be well."

\-------

Prince Mars - proud father of his prouder daughter, Reyna, and meek and mild son, Frank - has aged. He has aged so very much.

Sometimes, when Frank is eating dinner with his father, the prince will fall asleep unprompted, napkin dropping to the floor with a soft sigh, and hand knocking over his food.

He forgets things: little things, like what he had for dinner, or where his glasses are, and big things, like Frank's name, or where Reyna is. Nowadays, he lives in the past.

Still, people like to see the old man. To them, he is a relic, an artifact from the last century, in his long coat and cap and gold spectacles.

The house reflects him, with its powdered footmen, halls of mirrors, crumbling portraits. Complete with an old man, and his gentle daughter, it is a majestic yet agreeable spectacle.

But, Frank reflects, besides the two or three hours where the prince is amused, there are still another twenty two hours in the day. And then, then, the private and intimate life of the house continues.

Frank ushers the last guest out. He holds his breath, and then returns to the dining room. "Father?"

"Bring me my slippers, you useless boy! Why haven't you brought them? And my wine!" It's always like this. It's always Frank's fault, and there's always Why aren't you more like your sisters and Why are you so stupid, boys being thrown around.

Still, Frank loves his father. More than anything. After all, who would take care of him if Frank left? Neither of them have friends - they never even leave the house.

"Silence! Silence! Shut your damn mouth, boy!"

"Yes, father." 

Frank could hurt him. He could. (But he never, ever, ever would.) And time is slipping through his fingers.

Their family is rich. Frank knows that many women - and probably men, too - would line up around the castle on the hill to marry him. But every time he tries to take one as a wife, it's the same old story. His father will shout, rage, and bellow until his face turns red, and then throw the woman out, if she hasn't run away already. And this time, it's no different.

Well. This time, his father ushers in a woman only a few years older than Frank, and draws her close, kissing her hand. 

Frank is nearly sick. He pushes back his chair and hurries from the room, trying not to cry, but his father thunders after him. "Come on, son, let me have my fun, now."

"Father, no, she's using you. She just wants your money!"

"It's my money, and I'll throw it where I want! My money, not yours, and it's not for you!" He pauses, face sagging suddenly. "Where are my glasses? Son! Bring me my glasses - oh, I've aged - where are they; bring me my glasses!"

They are there.

They are there, atop his head, glinting gold in the candlelight.

(He forgets things. Falls asleep at the table. Lives in the past.) He is old, and so feeble, and Frank dares to judge him.

He disgusts himself.

\-------

Annabeth bites her lip, and her nails. She is to visit the aging Prince Mars and his son - Reyna's family - and oh, she is so nervous! 

At the gate of the castle on the hill, the servant ushers her forward. "Prince Mars is not receiving, but Prince Frank will see you."

There is no reason for them not to like me, Annabeth consoles herself.

Frank opens the door, ducks his head. "Oh," he says, toeing the floor. "Oh, hello. Do come in," in no more than a whisper.

They take a seat in the drawing room, awkward silence chafing them. "I'm sorry that my father is still ailing," Frank says. "He is old, and ill."

"That is fine," Annabeth says politely. She decides then and there that she does not really like Frank: so unnaturally polite, quiet, reserved - quite the opposite to Annabeth. Together, they are like violin strings rubbing against each other.

A door bangs open. Annabeth glances up, and sees the old prince shamble in, still in his dressing gown and slippers, squinting at her. "Ah!" he cries, upon seeing her. "Ah, madam, Reyna's betrothed, I believe. I would that you forgive my costume - I came in such a thing only expecting my son, not you." He spits the words out. "Not you, my poor girl. God as my witness, I did not know! My poor girl."

He looks at Annabeth once, head to toe, curls his lip, and then shuffles out, muttering to himself.

"I must take my leave," Annabeth gasps, stinging all over.

"No, do stay - I apologise for my father, he doesn't mean to-"

"I'm sorry, Prince, I must go."

"Wait!" Frank touches her arm, just once, oh-so-gentle. "I am so glad my sister has found happiness in you. You will be a wonderful addition to this family, and I hope we will be dear to you, Countess."

"Is that the truth? Really? I have to go."

Through the haze of tears, Annabeth stumbles from the castle. It hurts, so terribly; all she wants is Reyna back. All she wants is Reyna in her smart uniform with her tight braids and little smile and lovely dark distant eyes.

Oh, Reyna. Where are you?

\------

It is cold outside. Annabeth draws her cloak tighter around her, crossing her arms to fend off the chill. Stretching out above her, above Moscow, above the whole of Russia, is the dark, starry sky; each pinprick of light joins together to make something new, dusted with clouds. And, of course, the moon is the centrepiece: a single piece of fruit, hanging low in the sky; a teardrop, tracking down a cheek; a fine jewel on a rich woman's necklace. 

When Annabeth looks up at the moon, she thinks of Reyna. She thinks of Reyna, wherever she is, looking up at the same stars, moon, clouds, and thinking the same thoughts. 

And, just like that, Annabeth is transported back to her first ball. She remembers the itchy tightness of her new dress, and the heat of the room. She remembers the heavy makeup and jewellery and hairpins weighting her down, and the feeling that any moment she would topple over. And then Annabeth remembers Reyna, dark hair loose and curled, gown exquisite against her brown skin - so different to the other women and men, and so alluring. 

Reyna's hand, warm and soft, and her voice, like music: "May I have this dance?"

Annabeth had stared, eyes wide open, frozen for a moment; but she remembered her manners, and curled her fingers around Reyna's. 

And Reyna's eyes, big and sparkling and liquid in the light, hovering just a few inches above Annabeth's. And Reyna's smile, distant yet warm, like she was on another planet, but still anchored to Russia, to Annabeth. And Reyna laughing, twirling her, a loose curl flying around her face.

Under the moonlight, Annabeth's cheeks colour and a smile tugs at the corners of her lips, and her breath almost catches in her throat because oh, dear God, she is so in love with Reyna. 

As the moon catches on the snow, and the stars watch knowingly from above, Annabeth wraps her arms around herself in joy and love. 

This, she thinks, is the happiest I have ever been, and the happiest I ever will be.

Annabeth and Reyna. Reyna and Annabeth. And no one else.

With Reyna, Annabeth feels like she knows her, right from the start, like they've been together before: two angels in heaven, two snowflakes in the sky, two stars with the moon. 

Oh, the moon!

How beautiful it is, a silver flower in the sky, a lone snowflake, a lantern in the night! How beautiful it is, shining over the houses, over the roofs and cobbles and stones, over the sleepers underneath - though how they can sleep through this, Annabeth does not know, because oh, it is so beautiful, so perfect, a golden moment in time, the best night there ever was. 

Annabeth sinks down into the winter snow, curling her cloak around her, beaming up at the moon. She imagines flying away, and meeting Reyna among the stars. 

I'll never be this happy again, she vows. You and I, you and I, you and I - and no one else. 

(Maybe she'll be there when Annabeth goes back in. Maybe she's under the stars, on her way home. Maybe she's waiting for Annabeth.)

No one else.

\-------

"Come, quickly now," Chiron says - not unkindly - ushering Annabeth and Hazel from the carriage. Whilst Hazel keeps her eyes demurely resting on the floor, Annabeth can't help but let her gaze wander and wonder. 

Moscow ladies hurry past her, heads and jewels held high, limbs draped in the finest gowns in the city, dripping with precious stones like raindrops from leaves. 

"Annabeth, smooth your gown," Hazel reprimands, but smiles kindly.

Annabeth brushed her fingertips over the soft fabric and lace, smoothing the material. She hurries after Hazel and Chiron, nearly crashing into a broad-shouldered man with a smart uniform, his buttons gleaming. "Sorry," she murmurs. "Sorry. Sorry."

There is a looking-glass above the door. As they pass under it, the women look up to check their hair - and the men, too, though they try to hide it. Looking up, Annabeth is enchanted by how different she looks, with her hair piled on top of her head and her dress rich and smooth; how pretty she appears! How much older she seems!

Everybody is staring at Annabeth - and Hazel, too - and to no surprise. They are new to Moscow, and this is the city where everybody knows everybody. Chiron leads them forwards, pointing out some of his friends, introducing them to people.

"Ah, and there," Chiron says, "is Clarisse LaRue. She fought in the war - no, she did not just fight, she dominated the war. And now all the Moscow men are mad about her. Clarisse the assassin!"

"The assassin," Annabeth repeats, suitably impressed. 

Attached to Clarisse's arm is another remarkably pretty - one could go as far to say beautiful - woman. "Countess Silena Beauregard," Chiron says. "Married - unhappily - to Percy Jackson, but rumour is she's having an affair with Clarisse."

Oh, the scandal of Moscow, Annabeth thinks. Silena really is beautiful, with the attention turned to her: shoulders and neck and arms plump and smooth; dark hair sweeping down her back, dead straight and shiny and not at all frizzy; eyes creased in the corners, under perfect brows. Her dress is emerald green, and she wears emeralds in her hair and on her wrists - but a string of pearls around her neck.

Really, Annabeth cannot help but stare.

(And Silena stares back. Annabeth blushes scarlet.)

"There is a woman you must stay far away from," scolds Chiron. "Now come, the curtain rises."

Seated in the box, Annabeth turns her attention to the stage, as do the rest of the audience. The actors enter, and the crowd hushes.

Annabeth cannot follow the opera.

It is disgusting, grotesque, macabre; the paint is garish, plasterboard cracked and flaking in places; the costumes are tacky and shoddily-made, and they hurt Annabeth's eyes. Red cloth spews across the stage, a poor mimic of blood, and an actor collapses to the floor, clutching his heart theatrically and writhing on the spot before slumping down, stilled.

Annabeth sighs as the ridiculousness of it. 

A cool breeze brushes over her face, sweetened with the rose and vanilla and lavender perfumes of the people in the audience. It tickles her nose, but in a nice way. 

Propping her head on her hand - in a most unladylike manner - Annabeth begins to drift off into some kind of stupor. Everything is most amusing, yet she can't seem to move properly. Strange.

And then.

A rush of cold air, almost icy compared to the warmth of the opera-house. The sound of the door, opening slowly, as if someone is trying to be quiet but they know they aren't, and they take more pleasure from that.

An exceptionally attractive young woman walks in. Annabeth's heart seems to stop, and then start again, fluttering in her throat; her mouth is too dry even to bite it back. She sits up straight, suddenly conscious of the wrinkles in her dress and the stray curl that floats somewhere near her left ear. 

The woman's footfalls sound out loudly on the polished wooden boards, beating in time to Annabeth's heart. 

Annabeth leans forward, tries to get a good look. The woman has hair the colour of melted caramel, braided and twisted and pinned up around her shoulders, her bare shoulders, her bare arms and neck. Her skin is smooth and brown, a beautiful contrast to the white gown she wears, perfectly setting off the pearls around her neck.

What is most striking about her, however, is her eyes. Even in the dimmed light of the opera-house, they leap out at Annabeth - who can't decide what colour they are. Near the candle flame, they flash a warm green, but as she passes, they freeze up into a cold blue, and in the shadows, they turn a rich, dark shade of brown.

Annabeth turns to Chiron, who leans over Hazel in order to say, "Piper McLean. Silena's sister, and Clarisse's closest friend."

Annabeth nods. Piper walks with a swagger, which would look ridiculous on her feminine shape if she were anyone else, but Piper pulls off the confident air in a way Annabeth doesn't even know women can do. (She vows to try it when she gets home.)

Despite it being the middle of the act, Piper strides right down the aisle, head held high, jewels gleaming. She takes a seat next to Clarisse, smiling charmingly at Silena. Their box is opposite Annabeth's.

The whole time, they are talking, Clarisse and Piper and Silena. They are talking, Annabeth realises, about me.

There is a cry from the stage. Annabeth turns, startled, but it is just the first act finishing. All around her, people rise from their seats to applaud and cry, "Bravo! Bravo!"

Annabeth ignores them. She didn't care much for it anyway. Instead, her eyes focus on Piper.

And here is what she sees: glittering eyes, a smile curling like a snake, and gleaming pearls. And here is what she feels: desire, dread, and a strange light tug in the pit of her stomach.

"Bravo! Bravo!" call the crowd. Annabeth sees Piper's mouth form the words too, but she doesn't look at the stage - she hasn't since the moment she entered - she is looking, instead, at Annabeth.

But then she leaves the box and disappears into the crowd. Disappointment and shame pull Annabeth down into her seat, and she slumps forward. Hazel and Chiron leave the box to socialise during the interval, but Annabeth remains where she is.

Staring intently at the ground, blinking hard to avoid tears, Annabeth almost doesn't notice the rush of cold air, so similar to Piper's entrance not long ago; so similar, in fact, that Annabeth looks up.

A rush of cold air, and then Piper enters the box.

\-------

Annabeth straightens her dress, smooths back a lock of hair, takes a deep breath, and looks Piper McLean right in the eye. There is no barrier between them, no shield of modesty or decorum, just Piper's eyes on Annabeth's skin and two racing hearts. And they talk, conversation flowing easily.

Piper is cheerful and bright, but not tacky; sensible and calm, but not boring; bold and forward, but not overbearing; and as attractive up close as at a distance.

"Do you know, Annabeth, we are having a costume tournament soon?" Piper asks. "You ought to come, really."

"Oh - oh, I..." Annabeth stutters and blushes under Piper's gaze.

Piper is staring, scrutinising Annabeth's bare arms and shoulders and neck - and then her eyes. Piper looks her directly in the eyes, and smiles tenderly.

"How do you like Moscow?" Annabeth blurts out.

"Oh, well, at first I did not like it - but now, I think I have changed my mind." Piper smiles again, more charmingly this time. "Do come to the costume tournament, Countess; you will be the prettiest there."

They speak of such ordinary things, but Annabeth feels somehow nearer to Piper than she has with any other person, even Reyna. No one else is in the box, just Annabeth and Piper; no one is there to see them. And Piper's eyes still look into Annabeth's, glittering in the warm candlelight.

Annabeth cannot speak - but thankfully, she is saved from having to form a response. "I must go, dear Countess, but I hope to see you soon."

"Indeed." Annabeth watches Piper go with much confusion and fear - is she to betray Reyna, or leave these feelings behind?

\-------

Chiron enters the box, with Hazel trailing behind. "Was that Piper McLean I just saw leaving?" he asks.

"O - oh, yes..." Annabeth searches for a suitable response. "She just came in to - to introduce herself."

"Really? Hm." Chiron takes his seat, and the next part of the opera begins. Annabeth starts to shake underneath her smile. She can feel her happiness with Reyna slipping away from her, like water slipping from an animal as it emerges from a river.

All she sees is Piper, for the whole rest of the night: Piper's glittering eyes, her tender smile, her bare shoulders. 

They leave soon after the opera finishes. Annabeth wants to go home and hurry to her room and hide away from it all; she keeps her head down and her eyes trained on the floor. Still, Piper finds her, falling into step with Annabeth; as they exit, Piper presses her hand into Annabeth's arm. The touch sends a fiery thrill through Annabeth's skin, and an electric current into her heart. Piper's fingertips seem to burn holes in Annabeth's skin.

Annabeth turns round, and sees Piper, and she knows, she knows, that everything is ruined. It all goes dark and black and shadowy, and she thinks, Reyna, I am sorry, but that is all she can think before Piper smiles and raises an eyebrow and oh God, Annabeth is lost...!

It all seemed so simple, back in the box full of candlelight and emotion, but here she is so alone, and so frightened, even surrounded by all the theatre-goers.

At home, that night, it is not much better; it is a strange way to die, killed by your torturous conscience. Perhaps, she speculates, she can pretend it never happened. One conversation, a touch and a smile - that does not amount to love, or attraction at least. 

If she never sees Piper again, then no one will ever know, and she and Reyna can be happy - oh, if only Reyna could be here; why isn't she here? 

But still. Still. She can't help but wonder - what would happen if she pursued her? That bold beautiful woman who pressed her arm.

\-------

"Good evening, Percy."

Percy looks up, startled, and sees Piper standing in his doorway. He sighs, and turns back to his books. "Studying?" Piper asks, ever persistent.

Sighing again, irritated by the disruption, he turns in his chair. "Yes. How was the opera?"

"Lovely." (Percy doubts Piper actually paid attention.) "Annabeth Chase was there."

Oh. So this is the reason for Piper's sudden love of opera. Percy feels a sudden conflicting jealousy and interest - it's more than he's felt in a while, and all down to Annabeth. "Ah, yes, Reyna's betrothed." He puts special emphasis on the betrothed. 

Piper visibly swallows. "Yes, charming," she says, and then moves forwards. "Clarisse is coming round, and we are off to the club. Will you come, old man?"

Despite the sting of offence at the 'old man' jab, Percy agrees.

"Oh, good," says Piper, smiling widely. "Lend me fifty rubles?"

Music is blasting from the club. Percy can't help but think the beat seems familiar - and then he realises it's matching his own heart. He puts a hand over his chest protectively. 

As soon as they enter the bar, Percy is hit by a blast of warm, boozy air, so strong it nearly knocks him off his feet. Pushing back his hair, he struggles through the mass of bodies towards the bar, where it is relatively quiet.

The usual bartender is on duty. They don't even have to ask Percy what he wants - he always has the same - before pouring him a shot of vodka and setting it down beside him.

Percy lifts it to his lips and tips his head back, swallowing the shot in one mouthful. The familiar burn warms his throat somewhat, and he knocks back another shot - just to keep him on his feet.

Piper emerges from the crowd, hair mussed and face flushed, Clarisse following behind. "We found someone else," Piper calls over, and Percy turns, curious.

Silena appears, hair as perfect and shiny as ever. Percy smiles at her, his lips stiff and overly-cordial. 

"How about a toast?" suggests Piper, propping herself up on the bar and pouring a drink. Clarisse gets two - one for herself and one for Silena. (Percy pretends he doesn't see the way Clarisse looks at his wife.)

"A toast!" he says cheerfully, and the four of them clink their glasses together and toss the drinks into their mouths. Warmth spreads through Percy's veins - not fiery warmth, but a pleasant heat like a firelit room on a cold day, or a candle near chilled skin.

Really, Percy reflects, he shouldn't be drinking at all - he has been informed, many times, by many doctors, that it will kill him soon if he keeps up his terrible alcohol habits. But he's only really at ease after a glass of wine or two.

Silena sets another glass in front of him, urging him to keep drinking. (All three of them hit him with the old man taunt again, but he ignores it.) He accepts the glass, well on his way to drinking the whole night through.

Over by the bar, Clarisse and Piper are arguing - perhaps over Piper's pursuit of whatever man or woman has taken her fancy this time. It will be someone dangerous, probably, most likely someone who's already married, just like Piper. (Piper married Jason, a Polish landowner, some years ago - she doesn't ever talk about it, and Percy doesn't press her. It's her business what she does with her time, just like it's his business what he does with his.)

Clarisse touches Piper's face, just once, and then turns back to her drink, visibly hurting.

Percy looks over, considering saying something, but then shrugs. Silena offers him more vodka, and he takes the drinks happily. 

He's more than a few glasses in by now, and his tongue feels a lot looser, and life a lot sadder. "I used to love!" he affirms. "I did, and I used to be - to be better..." His words trail off drunkenly.

Silena takes some more wine. She's definitely not sober either. "God to think I married a man like you," she sighs, red liquid sloshing like blood from her glass.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Percy complains, though he's not sure if he's saying the right words anymore. Silena drops her glass accidentally, and it shatters against the tabletop, exploding into a thousand glittering fragments. Percy quickly brushes them away before they can hurt anyone, entranced by the way they catch the dull light and throw it back into something bright and sparkling.

"Clarisse, pour me another!" Silena calls, and Clarisse winks at her, holding up the bottle.

Amber liquid splashes clumsily into the glass. Clarisse holds it up to make a toast: "Here's to the health of married women!"

A smile curls at the corner of her mouth. It looks even more unnatural on her than her usual serious expression. Percy narrows his eyes - what's that supposed to mean?

"A toast to the health of married women, and their lovers!" Clarisse finishes, her smile growing - and it's directed at Silena, who laughs and winks back.

Percy feels something unfurl inside him - leaves of jealousy turn their faces to the sun, budding purple anger and white guilt.

"How dare you touch her?" he cries, successfully getting Clarisse's attention.

"You can't love her!" she retaliates.

"Enough." Percy leans across the table, a sudden scared anticipation building inside his bloodstream. "I challenge you to a duel."

"Oh, a duel," Clarisse smirks, cracking her fingers.

"She will kill you, husband!" says Silena, urgency mingling with alcohol in her tone.

"So, I shall be killed. This? I must do." He's vaguely aware that his speech is stilted, affected by alcohol. "Piper? My guns."

"Whoah," says Piper, biting her lip. "This is...a bad idea."

"Just tell me where to go and when to shoot," Percy instructs, leaning up to grasp Piper's arm.

Piper nods, still looking worried, but determination hardens on her face. She mutters a few words of advice in Percy's ear. 

"Well, let's begin," says Clarisse. They take it outside, round the back of the bar. Percy's feet sink into the grass, and the pistol burns hot and cold in his hands.

They stand facing each other. Percy readies his pistol. His breath is tight in his chest.

"Rzha! Dva! Tri!" the onlookers cry, and on tri, Percy and Clarisse begin to move.

"Percy, hold your fire," Piper warns from the side. "Hold your fire. Hold your fire. Hold your - no! Not yet!" 

But Percy's finger slips, and the trigger tightens, and then a shot rings out into the cold night. It slams into Clarisse, sending her spinning backwards and onto the grass. With some superhuman effort, she drags herself to her feet again.

Percy just stands, shocked. He hadn't - he didn't - he can't believe he shot. He can't believe he hit. The air stops before it reaches hid lungs, and he has to gasp to get breath.

"No!" Clarisse cries, struggling forwards. "My turn..."

Percy stops, exposes his chest, readies himself for the blow. He can't take shooting again - he just can't do it, he can't take it, he can't he can't he can't -

Another shot. But the impact never comes. 

Somehow, Clarisse has missed. 

Percy breathes. He is alive.

Piper hurries to Clarisse, who has tumbled backwards onto the slick grass. She helps her friend to her feet, and half-walks, half-carries Clarisse out.

Percy is sickened - by what he has done, by the whole evening's events. What is left for him to do? There is nothing.

So, with a heavy heart and a heavier conscience, he goes home.

\-------

Sunday morning finds Annabeth hurrying from window to window, craning her neck to peer outside, and from room to room. She is searching, as she does every day, for a glimpse of Reyna's distant smile or a burst of laughter, stilted and surprised as if the mirth has been shocked out of her. 

And, of course, Reyna has not arrived. It is the same as always, day after day; it is the same as it always will be, room to room, day to day, searching and searching, until eventually Annabeth just fades away, merges into the other shadows in the courtyard. 

"Come to church, dear," Chiron says comfortingly, over a silent breakfast of oat porridge and jam and disappointment. 

The maids have cleaned the house, and it smells fresh and clean, like lemons and shiny white surfaces. Somewhere, down in the belly of the house's kitchens, a fine Sunday lunch is being cooked up: Annabeth and Hazel both deeply inhale the smells of herbs and succulent pork. 

They travel by troika to church. Chiron makes small, polite conversation; Hazel replies, her words equally small and polite. Annabeth stays silent, staring miserably into the near-distance, hands resting limply on the skirts of her flowered day-dress. 

Arriving at the church, Chiron accepts a service pamphlet and hymn book, giving the elderly churchgoer a kind smile. Hazel does, too, but Annabeth still cannot speak a word, and so hurries through the entrance and into the body of the church.

It is much smaller than the one she went to back at home. That church had soaring ceilings and mosaics and frescoes and stained-glass windows in abundance, and it could seat five hundred without even trying. 

This building, however, has only three stained-glass windows (right above the alter) and no mosaics or frescoes at all, and it looks like it could take maybe a hundred people on a good day. 

Chiron ushers them down the aisle and into his pew. The wooden seat is cold, pressing against Annabeth's thighs even through her clothes. She toes the prayer cushion unhappily, pushing the musty fabric from side to side until Chiron nudges her. "Annabeth, do stop fidgeting," he scolds. Annabeth mutters out a weak apology, folding her hands in her lap.

The service begins. Chiron gazes up at the alter with rapt attention, drinking in every word of the sermon. Annabeth's not sure why; she finds it frightfully dull. 

They bend their heads to pray; some kneel on the cushions, others remain seated. 

Annabeth knows she must pray for big things, like the war, or moral things, like her mother's health, but she does not. Instead, she wonders, conflicted, about the theatre and Piper. There are terrible feelings inside of her, terrible desires. 'Lord, forgive me of my sins,' she prays, without heart or emphasis.

Have I broken faith with Reyna? Am I guilty?

After church, they leave immediately. There is another silent troika ride, in which Chiron interprets Annabeth's internal turmoil about Piper as hurt from old Prince Mars' rejection. Annabeth doesn't bother to deny it.

"Not to worry," Chiron says, as they make their way up the drive. "I think I will go over there and straighten him out, that rude, crotchety old fool."

Hazel look equal parts frightened and impressed; Annabeth feels fully miserable. As soon as they enter the house, Chiron begins to prepare to leave again, and Hazel turns to Annabeth. 

"There, there, Annabeth," Hazel says comfortingly, laying a hand on Annabeth's arm, "it's not your fault. Here, kiss me."

Annabeth reluctantly presses a kiss to Hazel's soft dark cheek, even her friend's embrace not helping her. She wants to trudge up to her chamber and try on some of her new gowns, just for something to do. 

Chiron leaves, closing the door behind him. Annabeth turns to go upstairs, but then. 

Then, there sounds a knock at the door. Annabeth looks around, frozen poised to leave, and squints at the fuzzy shape through the glass of the door. 

Just as Annabeth is about to open the door, or perhaps call for the butler, she hears the voice from the other side.

She feels her cheeks go scarlet. 

\-------

Silena Beauregard. 

Annabeth opens the door slowly, and ushers the other woman in. Silena's dark hair is loose, flowing down her back in a straight black line, and a pink day-dress sets off her liquid dark eyes.

Annabeth leads Silena up to her chamber, feeling that the drawing room would be somehow improper. As soon as they enter the room, Silena turns her attention to the rack of gowns.

"Oh, these are beautiful," she says. "They do suit you, especially this one." Her fingers brush across the metallic gauze.

"It's straight from Paris," Annabeth tells her uncomfortably.

"Well, anything suits you, my charmer." Annabeth feels her cheeks colour: light pink, darkening to red, and to fuschia, under Silena's gaze.

Silena lifts a string of pearls from Annabeth's dresser and lays them around Annabeth's neck. "Beautiful," she murmurs. "Now, why haven't I seen you out anywhere?"

"I am engaged," Annabeth says. "I would not want to - to mislead anybody."

"Your fiancée would want you to have fun!" urges Silena. Then, changing tack, "I dined with my sister yesterday."

"Oh, lovely." Annabeth isn't sure she likes where this is going.

"You know, Piper McLean? But she didn't eat a thing, and do you know why?"

"Why?"

"She was thinking about you. She kept sighing about you. Really, my dear, she is quite madly in love with you."

Annabeth blushes even more. 

"A woman in a dress, you know, is a frightening and powerful thing: you are not a child when you're draped in scarlet and lace." Silena replaces the thread of pearls, taking care not to disturb anything else on the dresser.

"O - oh," Annabeth stutters. "Thank you, but-"

"There is a ball at my house tonight," Silena says. Annabeth can't help but envision pearls and dresses and violins. "You should come, you know. My sister will be there - and with your beauty, you shall surely be a wondrous sight."

Annabeth thinks for a moment. Then, "I will come."

She shows Silena out. It can't be so bad, then, what she is doing. Silena knows she is engaged, but she still talks so freely. And if it's not bad, what's the harm in going to one little ball?

\-------

Annabeth steps from the carriage slowly, revelling in the feeling of soft silk against her skin and jewels in her hair. Hazel did her makeup for her, and now her eyes feel wide and stiff and her lips caked in powder. Still, her reflection looked positively beautiful, and Annabeth is pleased with how she appears tonight.

(She just hopes Piper will feel the same.)

And there she is, waiting by the door, her eyes and skin glowing ethereally, her hair styled and dress long and elegant - just low-cut enough to show the V of skin above her breasts. Annabeth feels all the blood rush to her cheeks, and hopes her makeup hides it.

"Ah, Annabeth," Piper says, eyes lighting up. Annabeth's heart jumps nervously.

"Piper McLean," Annabeth says, unsure how to address her. "Are you well?"

"Very much so." Piper offers her arm, and Annabeth takes it. Together, they walk inside. Annabeth knows they make a formidable couple, with their combined good looks and wealth - though not as formidable as Reyna, in her uniform and gleaming boots.

Classical music drifts through the air inside. Annabeth smells perfume, sweet and citrus and floral scented, and she inhales deeply. The ballroom has arching ceilings, decorated with intricate painted detail and mosaics. On the main floor, dozens of couples are swirling and turning to the tune of the violins; Annabeth doesn't think she's ever seen so many gemstones in one place before.

"May I have this dance?" Piper extends her hand to Annabeth. 

Annabeth hesitates. If she takes Piper's hand now, that's it, there's no going back. She'll have broken faith with Reyna, and that will be it. But if she refuses the dance, if she leaves, she'll never get to know what could happen.

Fear and anticipation churn in her stomach. She bites her lip. Then, after a moment, she lifts her hand. It trembles in mid-air. (It's not too late.)

Her whole body screams at her to drop her hand and run, far away; get away from this ballroom with its unnatural perfume and this woman with her unnatural beauty. But --

Annabeth lets her hand fall into Piper's. Gloved fingers close around hers. 

Annabeth swallows hard. Has she made a mistake? She's definitely made a mistake. Before she can retract her offer and her hand, however, Piper's pulling her onto the ballroom floor. 

Amidst the sea of swirling skirts and glistening jewels, Annabeth cannot say no. She is so frightened, and so confused, but it's only one dance. Just this one dance - Reyna wouldn't mind, surely.

So they dance. And as they dance, Piper's hand cups Annabeth's arm, fingers, waist - "You are enchanting," Piper murmurs, leaning over to whisper in Annabeth's ear. The pose is oddly intimate; Annabeth freezes up. "You are bewitching. You are spellbinding. You are mesmerising."

Annabeth's cheeks flush at the compliments - surely, then, Piper must mean well, if she really thinks this about Annabeth. 

And during the ecossaise, as the other couples laugh and dance, Piper says nothing. She just gazes in Annabeth's eyes, so strong, so intense, that Annabeth has to look away, focussing on the dance's steps. 

I am betrothed! she wants to cry. I cannot love you, when I love another too! 

But the look in Piper's eyes, the confidence, the tenderness, the strange, unfamiliar edge - Annabeth cannot get the words out. 

"Don't lower your eyes, dear," Piper says, as the dance comes to an end and a slow waltz begins. "Look at me, look at my face, and you will see that I am madly in love with you."

"Don't say such things!" Annabeth stiffens in Piper's arms. "I am betrothed. I cannot love you, when I love another too." There. It feels good to say it out loud.

"Don't say such things," Piper says, spinning Annabeth around. "Is it my fault that you are enchanting?"

"But-" Annabeth breaks off, confused, and so, so, frightened. She tries to break away, but Piper stops her, bringing their faces close together. Piper's eyes are big, and wide, and they glitter almost scarily. Her hand presses Annabeth's arm.

Annabeth is so scared; she doesn't understand, makeitstopmakeitstopmakeit -

Their lips press together. The kiss is burning hot, full of flames and coal and ash. It singes Annabeth's mouth and heart, and she does nothing to stop it, just pulls Piper closer.

(In a way, quite twistedly, she likes the heat, the fire of guilt and fear and betrayal.) 

And then they break apart. Piper's eyes are full of relief and satisfaction and desire, so unlike what Annabeth is feeling.

What just happened? Has she truly done this, betrayed Reyna like this, cheated her of her love and trust and, oh, she will never get to see that distant smile, stony-set face, warm eyes, again, never!

But - the kiss, so hot and firey; it must mean something, Annabeth decides. Those tongues of fire - it must mean love. It must mean that she is in love with Piper.

She will do anything for Piper.

\-------

Percy sits at his desk to write the letter to Reyna. He takes a fresh sheet of paper, and a new pen. The ink is dark and black and clumpy; he inspects it with disgust, stirring it with the end of the pen, and then shrugs and dips the nib in. 

Dear Reyna, he writes. How goes the war?

Percy wishes he is there. He wants to smell the death on his heels. He wants to taste the fear, metallic and cold and as acrid as the smoke that chokes the battlefield. He wants to fire the cannon and bite back the satisfaction that comes with it. 

Clarisse is recovering. She will be alright.

Really, Percy thinks, he should have been the one to take the bullet. He still blames himself - and the alcohol in his system - for the ridiculous situation he had gotten himself into. 

Annabeth is in town. 

(Of course he mentions Annabeth. He can't go a day without thinking about her. The way her hair tumbles over her shoulder in beautiful blonde curls. The way her eyes shine. Her fiery temper, and fierier joy.)

Percy takes a swig from the glass of wine by his half-finished letter. It is cheap - not French, but some Russian rip-off. It is too sweet, and the alcohol underneath tastes too dull: he grimaces, and sets the wine back down, continuing his letter. 

We are just caught in the web of history.

He pauses again. He quite likes that; maybe he'll save it and use it again later. 

Abruptly pushing back his chair, he stands, and strides over to the window; across the other side of the city, unbeknownst to Percy, Annabeth is doing the same. 

She returns to her seat after a brief moment of silence, staring out at the gloomy darkness. 

Annabeth, too, is writing a letter to Reyna - or, at least, trying to.

Dear Reyna, she manages - and then tosses her pen down. For what can she write? What more does she have to say to Reyna?

It feels, she reflects, as if they are standing over her shoulders: Reyna on her right, brave and proud and beautiful, rifle slung around her uniformed waist; and Piper on her left, head held high, an unreadable smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. They both are reaching out hands to Annabeth, gripping onto her tightly: all she really wants to do is curl up into a ball and never think of it again. 

She turns, turns to the mirror, half-expecting to see their ghastly figures there, or at least some glimpse of the future, but there is nothing. Only the candle flame, flickering gently, giving off a dim but warm light. And her face, pale and wan, as much of a ghost as her lovers.

And what of Prince Frank? His letter lies still on her dresser, not yet opened. Decisively, she reaches out and slits the throat of the envelope, pulling out the sheet of parchment within.

She scans it briefly, a few key phrases jumping out and catching her attention, things like 'misunderstanding' and 'deep despair' and 'forgiven', things that convey graciousness and charity and piety, all the things that Annabeth isn't, and she can't read the rest of the letter, only toss it aside.

She tries to write a reply, really she does, but she just cannot, because what can she write? How can she choose? What is she to do? How can she ever be happy again?

Annabeth abandons the letters, moving back to the window - not so far away, Percy does the same thing - and so does Frank, alone in the castle on the hill. Fingertips pressed against the cold glass, the wind and snow beating against it from the other side. 

And here is what is reflected in the windowpanes: stuttering candlelight, smudged black ink, and a haunted, ghostly face.

Some days later, Annabeth receives another letter. She recognises the handwriting on the front right away: To Countess Annabeth Chase, it reads, in neat, slanted script. Piper's script. 

Heart fluttering like a baby bird, she rips open the envelope. Two slim sheets of paper fall out, rustling as they brush against each other, softly tumbling into Annabeth's hasty, clumsy grasp. 

She unfolds the sheets, fingers fumbling. Her eyes race across the page, and at first she sees only the few words that matter. She sees only the declaration of love (love, or death). She sees only Piper's question - will you say yes? And her promise, to save Annabeth, to take her out of the dark and into the light.

Will you say yes?

Annabeth rereads it, taking in every words. She is drowning, drowning in the cursive - and this, she feels, is love. She is in love, in love like never before.

Will you say yes?

Yes. 

\-------

Hazel knows she shouldn't have done it.

But she had to, she consoles herself. Annabeth had been locked away in her room so often, writing so many letters, and receiving them too - something had been up with her, and Hazel had had to find out. So she'd snuck into Annabeth's room when Annabeth was sleeping, and read the letters. And now Hazel should be going, before Annabeth wakes, but she can't, she's frozen in place, because, because -

Look, Hazel knows she shouldn't have done it - but maybe it's good she did, because what she found...! Love letters to Piper McLean, love letter upon love letter upon love letter, and plans too, plans to elope.

To Hazel, Piper's letters seem fake, tacky, a bad masquerade of love that could be knocked aside like rotten wood, to reveal Piper's real intentions. 

Annabeth can't be in love with her. She can't be. No self-respecting Russian woman - not even Hazel's temperamental, beautiful cousin - would be in love with Piper.

There's a stirring from the bed. Annabeth's breathing changes, and her eyes open slowly. Hazel freezes, and then quickly hides the bundle of letters behind her back, feeling guilt sour her stomach.

"Hazel!" Annabeth's voice is still hoarse with sleep. She blinks, rubbing her eyes, and pushes herself up on one elbow; tangled blonde hair spills over the edge of the pillow. "You're back."

She reaches out to embrace Hazel, but Hazel draws back, embarrassed. Draws back from the same arms that have embraced Piper, the same hands that have penned those letters, the same lips that have kissed that bad, bad woman.

Seeing Hazel's reluctance, Annabeth's eyebrows draw together, creasing her forehead in confusion and suspicion. "Hazel? Have you - have you read the letters?"

For a moment, Hazel considers lying. But what's the point? "Yes," she admits, staring at the floor - and then, a moment later, produces the letters from behind her back and hands them to Annabeth.

"Oh, Hazel." Annabeth takes her hands. "I'm almost glad, you know. I don't think I could have hidden it any longer."

Hazel looks up shyly.

"And now you know - we love each other, Hazel." Annabeth sighs dreamily, but Hazel purses her lips, unsure. "We really do."

"But what about Reyna?" Hazel asks.

"Oh, don't be so silly, Hazel. You've never been in love, so how would you know how happy I am?" Annabeth's cheeks flush blotchy red.

"Annabeth! Are you refusing Princess Reyna?" Hazel almost spits out the question, fear mingling with worry and anger and shock.

"Don't talk nonsense - look, why don't you wait a bit? Sit here." Hazel obediently takes the seat that's offered.

"Annabeth - you've only known her three days! You can't be in love with her...can't you?"

"It seems to me I've loved her for a hundred years," Annabeth says. A tear trickles down Hazel's cheek, and then another, and another. Hazel swipes at them angrily. "It seems to me I've never loved anyone before."

Hazel can't even imagine loving Piper for one hour, let alone a hundred years. She shudders. "Aren't you frightened?" she asks.

"Oh, I'm so frightened. But that's just how it happens, see; I've heard it, and you must have too."

"Yes, but-"

"You aren't going to tell, are you?" Annabeth frowns. "You won't try to ruin what I have, will you?"

"I...of course not." Hazel dries her eyes and sniffs. "But why the secrecy? Why doesn't she just - come here, and ask for your hand? Have you thought of that?"

Annabeth's face creases up even more. "I don't know why, but there are reasons, Hazel, there must be. What part of it don't you understand?"

"Does...does she love you?" Hazel reaches out to take her friend's hand, fear and pity and worry mixing in the gesture.

"Of course she loves me! You've read her letters, haven't you? I can't live without her!"

"But - Princess Reyna -"

"Said I was free to refuse her," Annabeth finishes.

Hazel jaw drops and her face slackens. "You haven't refused her. You can't have," she says disbelievingly.

"Between Piper's offer and Prince Mars...maybe. Would you really think so badly of me?"

No. "Annabeth, no, it's not true! I don't trust her, Annabeth, and I'm scared for you; I'm scared you are going to your ruin-"

"Then I will go to my ruin, and I'll enjoy every damned second of it! But it's not your business, so leave me alone! Leave me alone; I hate you I hate you I hate you, and you're my enemy forever!"

Before Annabeth can say anything else, Hazel runs from the room. Her eyes brim with tears, though she hates herself for it, and a choked sob escapes her lips.

\-------

Annabeth has changed. She has changed, and Hazel does not like it.

She finds Annabeth on the window seat, or in the drawing room, or in her chamber, simply staring into space, fixated on something invisible in the distance. Sometimes, Annabeth will laugh, laugh at nothing; this, Hazel thinks, is far more unnerving than the silence. 

Wherever Annabeth goes, Hazel goes too, always a few paces behind; this is, of course, how it's always been, but it's different this time, because now, Hazel has to watch Annabeth at all times, and keep her safe.

Annabeth is waiting, Hazel is told. She waits for the letters. She waits by the window: sometimes, perched on the seat, skirts tucked underneath her; sometimes, face pressed against the glass, undignified and unashamed; sometimes, she will open the window and breathe in the cold air, unaware of Hazel's eyes on her.

Hazel listens at the door, listens for the letters. And when they come, Annabeth snatches them away, and buries herself in the words. She is drowning, Hazel thinks, slowly drowning in the letters. The sheets of paper smother her. The hook of an a pulls her underneath, and the tail of a y keeps her down. 

The sadness, deep and primitive, that is visible on Annabeth's face, confirms only one thing for Hazel: there is a dreadful woman and a more dreadful plan in her heart. 

Annabeth has always been so strong. She can do anything, anything she wants, anything she puts her mind to. She can have anything, too, with her charm and her looks and her innocence. But she is attached to the earth with only a few ties, and once they snap, Hazel knows that Annabeth will leave, and they will never see her again. They will be left with a handful of broken ties and the pieces to pick up, and that will be it. 

Hazel thinks of Annabeth's hand, soft and warm; Annabeth's eyes, glowing in the moonlight; Annabeth's smile, free and wild, and she knows she must save her.

It is all down to me, she thinks. It is all down to me. 

And Hazel will do anything for Annabeth, because she knows her, like the back of her hand, and the front of it too. 

(Standing outside the door to Annabeth's chamber, fist raised to knock. Silence, heavy and pressing.)

("Leave me alone; I hate you I hate you I hate you, and you're my enemy forever!")

Hazel will protect her. She will protect Annabeth's heart with her own - oh, how she misses her friend - and she will not see Annabeth broken, disgraced, pained. No more heartbreak need befall this family, Hazel vows. They are good people, kind people, and they do not deserve the sort of agony that seems to be striking them down every moment. 

(Blank stares. All the life gone from her face.)

Hazel will hold her up. Hazel won't let her fall. 

(A dreadful weight on Hazel's shoulders, but nothing as bad as on Annabeth's back. A weight Hazel will bear, must bear.)

(Oh, how she misses her.)

Anything. Anything for Annabeth. 

\-------

Percy encounters Piper in the club, before everything happens. "Piper!" he calls out, friendly as anything, alcohol spreading in a pleasant warm flush through his veins. "Where're you off to?"

Piper freezes, then turns. Nervously, she glances from side to side, then leans in a little. "Percy," she says, too quickly and too quietly. "Tonight I go away, and I won't be seeing you again for some time."

"Oh, really?"

"I'll send you a letter from Poland," Piper promises. 

"Ha! An elopement!" Percy gives a raucous laugh, and Piper tries to quieten him. "You fool! You are married already."

"Don't call me a fool," Piper says automatically. "And don't speak of that, old man; I will not deprive myself of Annabeth just because of that minor detail." She wets her lips anxiously. "I take her tonight."

"Oh, do you?" Percy leans back in his chair, enjoying the back-and-forth of the conversation.

"Indeed. Now: lend me fifty rubles?"

Percy sighs and digs out his wallet. As soon as Piper has her hands on the money, she hurries away, out of the door. "Ah, there's a true sage. Always living in the moment." He raises an eyebrow sarcastically, talking to nobody in particular. "What I wouldn't give to be like her." With that, he spins around and back to his drink. 

Up in her house above town, meanwhile, Clarisse waits and prepares. She knows the drill, how the youngest Chase will be bundled away and into the troika, straight through a marriage and to the bed. Clarisse suspects that's the only bit Piper's really interested in.

She turns the letter in her hands over and over. It is addressed to her, from Annabeth's cousin Hazel. The note is brief, but polite, and also compelling: Hazel wants to save Annabeth from Piper, and Clarisse wants to save Piper from Annabeth. Really, their agreement is a win-win situation.

At that moment, Piper bursts into Clarisse's study, dripping wet and with her uniform unbuttoned. Clarisse starts, quickly tucking Hazel's letter into her jacket. 

"Have you got everything?" Piper demands, then bites her lip. "Passports, horses, money - what else is there?" She checks each item off on her fingers, and then looks up at Clarisse imploringly. 

"Why don't you take a seat?" asks Clarisse. Strewn across her desk are handfuls of money and an abacus, as well as several sheets of plain paper. 

"Perhaps I will make some tea," Piper murmurs. "And let the wedding witnesses in," she adds, "I gather they have been waiting for some time."

She leaps up, begins pacing to and fro, to and fro, tearing at her hair in agitation. Maybe Clarisse would tell her to calm down, if she happens to be the sort of person who tells others to calm down, which she isn't. 

Piper's incessant pacing doesn't do much for Clarisse's already-frayed nerves, and soon she can't stand it any longer. "Wait!" she cries, jumping up from her desk so violently that her chair crashes backwards to the ground, loud in the near-empty room. 

Hazel's letter is on the tip of Clarisse's tongue, but she doesn't say anything about it. "Why don't you just give it up, whilst there's still time?" she says, advancing on Piper. "You really ought to drop it all."

(Clarisse hopes her voice doesn't convey any of her fear of desperation.) 

"This is no time for your stupid jokes, Clarisse," Piper sighs. "This is serious business, you know. Don't tease so."

"Oh, go to the devil!" Clarisse exclaims. "I'm not joking, I'm talking sense! This is serious, but you aren't treating it like it is. It's not a game, you know." She moves closer, covering Piper's body with her own. "And why would I be joking; me, of all people? I'll just remind you who raised the money, got the horses, the priest, the-"

"And I thank you for it! I have already said I am grateful!" Piper pushes away from Clarisse. 

But Clarisse isn't finished. "So now you'll carry her away. Fine. Then when will you stop, Piper? You haven't thought this through! Or is it that you just don't care, eh?" Clarisse feels her face flush red and angry. "Now listen to me, just one last time. You are already married, and still playing with little girls! They will take you to court, and you will be convicted, probably jailed, for your stupid, reckless decision!"

"Nonsense," scowls Piper, her face twisting up into an angry grimace. "I already explained it to you, didn't I?"

(Indeed, Piper has explained it already, several times through. Still, she is stubbornly attached to her pointless conclusion.)

"If this marriage isn't valid then I'm off the hook, but if it is valid it really doesn't matter; no one abroad will know anything about it-" And so on, and so on, until Clarisse wants to scream in frustration and slam Piper into a wall.

"Don't talk to me, then!" continues Piper. "I'll go to hell now, and I'll go gladly. Feel my heart? Feel how it beats, in anticipation of the devil?" Piper grabs for Clarisse's hand and presses it against her chest. 

Clarisse can indeed feel Piper's heart beating, far too loudly to be natural, but she says nothing, only snatches her hand away like it's been burned. 

But Piper doesn't notice, turning instead to the window with a dreamy expression on her face - no doubt caught up in some fantasy of Annabeth. 

Clarisse is just about to reach out and shake her to alertness when Piper snaps around. "It's time! It's time!" A gleeful smile spreads its way across her face. 

She almost sprints out of the room, words echoing behind her: "And hurry! The driver is here!"

Oh. Clarisse sighs. What has she gotten herself into?

\-------

Clarisse clambers into the back of Leo's troika, Piper jumping in behind.

Leo cracks the whip, and the horses start to move; after several loud taunts, the leading stallion begins to trot, pulling the other horses after it.

Clarisse leans forwards in glee - she loves this part. A few moments suspended in time, and then the troika takes off down the misty street, so fast Clarisse's whole body thumps back against the seat, and she's pretty sure she left her internal organs behind.

Leo is the fastest driver around, though they're also the most dangerous, and usually drunk whilst driving (which isn't yet illegal, though Clarisse is sure it should be).

One poor gentleman, crossing the street, stumbles backwards, to avoid being hit, so suddenly, his cap falls off and is caught up in the underneath of the troika. Piper smiles at him apologetically as they past; Clarisse just waves cheerily, not ashamed of her schadenfreude. 

"So, where are we to tonight, then?" Leo asks, turning around in their seat.

"The club," Piper says. "And eyes on the road, maybe?"

Leo winks and turns back around.

(The best thing about Leo is that they hardly ever demand payment - they drive for the thrill of it, just like Clarisse rides their troika, even to places she could have walked to, just for the adrenaline.)

All too soon, they arrive at the club. "I'll wait here to take you to Countess Chase's after, shall I?" Leo says, and Clarisse isn't even surprised anymore that they knows things like that.

"Yep. See you soon." Piper leaps from the troika, and Clarisse follows.

(Now they aren't driving, there's nothing to hide the throbbing guilt in her heart.)

\-------

Clarisse feels suddenly sick to her stomach. What has she done?

(Clarisse has done three bad things:  
1) She has replied to Hazel, when she swore she wouldn't;  
2) She has arranged to stop Piper from getting to Annabeth;  
3) She has betrayed her best friend.)

Back in her study, with black ink and candlelight, it seemed a good idea; here, in the darkened bar, surrounded by noise and alcohol and life, it seems terrible.

Piper is laughing and drinking and dancing with the wild travelling people, spinning from arm to arm and lips to lips, being passed around like some commodity, albeit a precious one.

As if timed, they all drop their glasses. A cacophony of smashing glass fills the air, and Clarisse catches sight of her reflection in one shard.

Guilty.

She looks guilty.

And then Piper is pausing the revelry and closing the door and they sit down in silence, following the custom. Clarisse, already slumped on a bar stool, doesn't move.

(The following shouts of joy sound even louder when compared to the quiet.)

Piper starts to lead them towards the door - though how, Clarisse thinks, she is going to kidnap Annabeth Chase with that many people, she does not know.

"Wait, wait!" Clarisse says, stopping them in their tracks. "Where's the fur cloak?"

Piper sighs, but stays where she is.

"I know what elopements are like," says Clarisse, desperately stalling. "She'll want to go back, you'll see; but you won't let her, so you wrap the fur cloak round her. And when she's got the cloak on - that's it, she's done for."

And then Leo pokes their head around the door. "What's the wait?" they cry. "Let's get out of here!"

(Thankfully, the travellers don't all try to get in the troika; only Piper, with Clarisse following behind. Some of the travellers try to run along behind, but eventually Leo's manic driving leaves them behind.)

Leo stops at Annabeth's gate, and Clarisse sticks two fingers in her mouth to whistle, sharp and loud and piercing. A maid opens the gate, holding a finger to her lips nervously. "Quick, come in through the courtyard," she whispers.

Piper hurries after the maid, but Clarisse stays by the gate. A few moments later, the front door opens, and Hazel looks out; Clarisse gives her the thumbs-up signal. Hazel nods and runs inside.

Clarisse can feel Leo's curious eyes on her, but she ignores them, hurrying around the courtyard. She can just see Piper making her way up to the back porch and raising her first - and then.

Then, the door flies open, and Chiron steps out of the house.

(Clarisse breathes a sick, twisted, guilty gasp of relief. It's worked.)

"You will not enter my house, you scoundrel!" Chiron cries, his voice carrying across the courtyard and into the dim night. 

Piper seems to be torn between staying or fleeing - then Clarisse sees the thick realisation dawn on her face. Piper casts a frantic look around at Clarisse, who steps forwards, hand raised as if she can apologise, but it's too late; Clarisse recognises the look on Piper's face.

Betrayal.

\-------

Annabeth has never seen Chiron properly angry before. Annoyed, irritated, scolding - sure, but never really furious like he is now. 

"Why? Why did you do it?" Chiron's face creases up, and his smile lines turn downwards into something much more menacing. His eyes flash with rage, burning into Annabeth's skin. "And in my house? How could you?"

Annabeth - though she hates herself for it - starts to cry, her whole body shaking. Everything is going from bad to worse, and she can't seem to stop it. Chiron reaches out, a glimpse of tenderness showing through his storminess, and touches her face, but - "Don't touch me! Let me be!" Annabeth cries, recoiling.

"What are we to tell your father? Or Princess Reyna, eh? Did you think of that?"

"She is not my betrothed!" Annabeth shouts, fists clenching. "I have refused her."

Chiron drops his hand in shock, mouth sagging open. "Annabeth," Hazel says placatingly. "Annabeth, don't, now; you'll be alright-"

"And why didn't that girl come to your house and ask for your hand? You weren't kept locked up! She just wanted you for your body, and then she would have thrown you away like some - some common girl!" Chiron retaliates.

"Go away, please," Annabeth sobs. "Everyone, go away!" And she throws herself down on the sofa, burying her head in her hands.

"Oh, Annabeth," Chiron says softly. 

Later, when nobody's around to see except Annabeth, he takes her a pillow and some blankets and a glass of water - probably assuming she's asleep, but she's not. 

Annabeth doesn't sleep all night. Her face is pale, her eyes wide and free of fatigue. And she keeps watching the window.

Waiting for Piper.

\-------

Chiron's letter to Percy is so sudden, Percy hasn't even taken off his shoes before he receives it. It's an urgent summoning, so urgent that Percy has to leave right away to arrive at Chiron's.

Chiron opens the door to him straight away, not even waiting for the butler. "Percy!" he cries. "Thank the Lord you're here. We need your help, desperately."

"What on earth...?"

"Annabeth has let down the family!" bursts out Chiron.

"What?"

"Annabeth has tried to elope!"

"What?"

"Annabeth and Piper McLean!"

"What?" Percy's jaw drops open, shocked. He knows Piper had a new lover, and knows she was interested in Annabeth Chase, but he's never bothered to connect the two things together. "I can't believe my ears - and Piper, honestly, why does she do this? She is already married!"

"Married? She's married? Oh, I must tell Annabeth!" 

"And poor Reyna," Percy says miserably.

"Yes, poor Reyna indeed, because when she comes home, she will surely challenge Piper to a duel, and get shot, probably killed, and everything will be ruined!" Chiron pauses. "You must find Piper, and tell her to leave Moscow - quickly, before this scandal spreads."

"At once."

\------

Percy's heart beats so loud he can hear it in his ears, and it seems like all the blood in his body is rushing to his chest. He has to find Piper, and now.

Percy tries most of Piper's usual haunts, all the while expecting to see skin a few shades darker than tan, swinging braids, a flash of kaleidescope eyes - but nothing. Soon, the only place he hasn't yet been is the club.

But at the club, nothing is amiss. Soft classical music plays - it appears no one's organised some revelry tonight - and warm candlelight flickers gently, illuminating the members eating their dinners as usual. A low, hushed buzz of chatter settles over the building.

As soon as Percy enters, the diners turn to him, eagerly demanding information about Piper and Annabeth's scandal. "Nonsense, nonsense," Percy says dismissively. "All gossip, all rumour; everything is fine." 

And still, no sign of Piper.

(Piper's at Percy's door, and Silena answers it for her. Beckons her inside. "You cannot see Annabeth; you must wait in the drawing room.")

(And Annabeth's shock and horror - "She can't be married. She can't be!" A stare like a hunted, wounded animal.)

Defeated, Percy arrives back at his house - but as soon as he opens the door, the servant greets him with: "Piper McLean is in the drawing room with the Countess, sir."

Percy swears. "Silena?" he calls. "What is the meaning of this?"

Silena hurries into the hallway, glancing behind her nervously. "Husband, you don't know how terrible it is for our poor Piper -"

"Where is she?" Percy interrupts; Silena gestures towards the drawing room.

Percy steps inside, closing the door behind him.

\-------

It seems to be an interrogation scene. Percy paces back and forwards, refusing to look at Piper until the last possible moment. "It's true, isn't it?" he spits out. "You led Countess Chase on, promised to marry her and planned to elope, and made her fall in love with you when you just wanted to bed her! It's true, isn't it?"

"I don't consider myself bound to answer questions put to me in that tone," chastises Piper.

Her patronising tone aggravates Percy to the point that he wants to scream. "You're a terrible person! I could - I could -" Percy breaks off, sighing heavily. "Did you promise to marry her?"

"I..." Piper scowls. "I didn't think - I mean, I never promised -"

Percy hands her a bundle of letters. "Here are the letters." He pauses, about to deliver the ultimatum. "Tomorrow, you must leave Moscow, and never tell a soul what has happened."

Piper sits down suddenly, as if her legs have given way. She bites her lip. Percy continues to pace the length of the room. "You must understand," he says cautiously, "that other people have feelings too, and you have ruined a whole life for the sake of amusing yourself. To deceive, attempt to kidnap, and lead on a young girl - can't you see how cruel you are being?"

"I have never thought of it like that." Piper frowns. "Still, I am not inclined to do as you say."

"What is it that you want from me?" Percy snaps. "Is it satisfaction? Money?"

"You could at least take back your words."

"Fine, fine. I take it all back. And I will give you money for your journey." Upon hearing Percy's words, Piper smiles - her smile is almost cunning, and nothing more than a façade; Percy cannot see the tenderness that Annabeth was so intent on finding.

The next day, Piper leaves for St. Petersburg, and Reyna arrives home.

\-------

Hazel's eyes are permanently red-raw with crying. She feels sick to her stomach.

(Annabeth, shaking her awake, eyes wide -)

She sits at Annabeth's bedside. Her friend's face is drawn and pale. She has not yet woken up, though the doctors think she will. They hope she will.

(Annabeth, shaking her awake, eyes wide, already swaying dangerously -)

Everyone in the house has five times the amount of work. It is chaos, but Annabeth's bedside is an island in the storm.

("Do you know what I have done, Hazel?" Confusion, just-waking blurriness-)

And now Annabeth is so ill...!

("I have taken arsenic, Hazel! I took the whole piece, Hazel, I'm scared-")

Doctors still crowd regularly around Annabeth's bed, though not as many as there were at first, and not as many potions too. Annabeth is out of danger, they say. Annabeth will be safe, they say. Don't worry so about her, they say.

Hazel cannot help but worry. Annabeth is so weak and pale; Hazel fears she might never wake up. And still no sign of Reyna.

Hazel is dreading it all.

\------

Reyna's back. A turn up for the books, muses Percy.

Reyna looks the same as always. Her hair, so dark it's almost black, is braided back and coiled underneath her cap; she wears her uniform, even in her own home; and her skin is the same shade (a little darker than tan). The only different thing about her is her eyes: whilst once they were childlike and sparkling with a distant humour, they're now hardened, set in stone by the sights of battle.

"Well, how are you?" Reyna says stiffly.

"I'm well. How are you?" Percy runs a hand through his hair. This could be harder than it seemed - and it's going to involve the word 'well' being used too much.

"As well as I could be, considering the circumstances," says Reyna. "It's good to see you again; it's been far too long." She glances around, and then hands Percy a bundle of papers. They rustle in his hand, and he peers at them curiously. "I wanted to give you these," she says; "it's Annabeth's letters. I have no need for them, upon her refusal."

"Annabeth is ill, you know. She has been at death's door."

"Yes, I do know. I most regret her illness." And Reyna smiles, looking like her father, a distant, almost cold, curl of the lip.

"Perhaps..." Percy begins. "Perhaps you could forgive her?"

"That would be the noble thing to do," Reyna sighs. "But I am afraid I cannot, and if you wish to be my friend, never speak of it again."

"I shall take these to Annabeth," Percy says, holding up the bundle of letters. "Good to see you, my friend."

"And you."

\-------

Percy enters the drawing room very slowly, like Annabeth is a small animal that could be easily startled. 

She stands in the middle of the room, hands by her sides, doing nothing. Her hair looks unwashed, greasy, and lank; it hangs in thick yellow ropes over her shoulders. Bones stand out sharp against her sallow skin; she looks so tiny and frightened that Percy just wants to take her in his arms and hide her from the world and never ever ever let go. (She's still beautiful, though.)

"Percy," she says, voice quiet but steady. "Rey - Princess Reyna is your friend... she once told me, if I am ever in need, I should turn to you. And she has returned; please, ask her to forgive me."

"I have," Percy says, no more than a whisper. "She has given me your letters." He hands the bundle of papers to Annabeth.

A tear glistens like a star in the corner of her eye - it escapes, and carves a quicksilver path into her face. Percy finds tears brimming in his eyes, too; he sniffs, and steps forwards. "I should - I should like to know one thing," he says cautiously. "Did you love Piper?"

"I don't know. I don't know at all." She begins to cry, and Percy's heart feels like it's about to burst.

"We don't have to speak of it anymore, if you don't want. But please, remember that I am your dear friend, and you can always turn to me-"

"Oh, don't. I'm not worth it."

"What? No, you have your whole life ahead of you; you aren't ruined, my dear. This is just a setback. You'll get up again." He pauses, swallows down the lump of nerves. It's time to banish the what-ifs. "If - if I were not myself, but the brightest, handsomest, best man on earth - and if I were free - I would get down on my knees this minute, and ask you for your hand... and for your love." 

Annabeth continues to weep, but this time it's tears of joy and tenderness.

She leaves the room smiling.

(It's cold outside, but Percy hurries out without even fastening his coat. The love warms his chest, and that's enough.

\-------

Percy is right at the top of a hill. From here, he can see all of Moscow; so beautiful, he forgets the frosty cold for a moment. He can see the gaudy, colourful, rich buildings, and the dirty, dank, black roofs of poorer homes. The town emits a haze of smog, choking the snow, but still the ice glows under the moonlight.

(Percy can't stop recalling that last, tearful, joyful glance she gave him.)

The air up here is clear and crisp; he breathes it in, along with the rays of moonlight and fragments of stardust.

Even through his tears, he looks up. The sky is huge, endlessly vast, stretching out forever and ever and ever, sprinkled with stars like a shake of salt or sugar, and the moon a drop of cream in the centre.

The centrepiece is, of course, the comet. The great comet, said to portray the end of the world, shines so bright, so brilliant, it hurts Percy's eyes.

Perhaps it has been a little awful lately, but her last glance, her last smile towards him - that makes up for everything. Everything.

The comet has been travelling so fast, through immeasurable space and time, seeing unimaginable wonders and unimaginable horrors - seems to have stopped. Just for Percy. It hovers in the sky like a bated breath, like a last tearful gasp, like a raised hand, about to touch his arm - frozen, in mid air.

And, like a tug in his chest, all the ice around his heart melts. Just like that, it melts, and it takes all his pent up loneliness and sadness and misery with it, draining out of his toes.

A strange happiness fills him, and he stretches his arms upwards, embracing the comet.

Embracing his new life.

**Author's Note:**

> please leave kudos or a comment i need validation sorry bye


End file.
